We davenned Mincha on the roof of the Temple House today--a space not yet open to the public but certainly one worthy of inspirational sites of Brooklyn in all directions and the hills of New Jersey in the distance.
Pigeons camped about Moses' sculpted visage; books were passed around; and facing east toward Prospect Park, with bikers and runners seen through the overhang of bare trees, we laid it up there--prayers in the Hebrew language as a mid-day offering of concern, anxiety, transcendent separation from the demands of the every day.
Today you could really feel the enthusiasm for one day taking possession of the roof. For its views, for its freeing atmosphere in a crowded city, for its vistas of this historic borough. I was up there early this morning at 8 am with my youngest, tracing in the air with our fingers the Washingtonian trajectories of revolutionary era maneuvers with the British. And later in the day, at 2.30 pm, we recited prayers that Jews said a thousand years before George Washington was but a glimmer in his mammy's eye.
Some of the time when I pray I talk to God. And other times I talk to History.
Today I could hardly tell the difference.